


Infernum

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Hellraiser (Movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28155942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: My input into the Otherwordly tag on Tumblr.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Infernum

The weather-worn walls of the church keep watch over the gravestones; a doting guardian, long since dead, arms wrapped around her silent children. The hungry branches of a nearby yew shield the crumbling bell tower from the prying eyes of the night sky, stars twinkling in their glee at such a show as they’ve just witnessed. Far above in her silver throne, the moon observes the tall, ashen person that ascends the three stone steps to the altar. His leather boots step unconcernedly through the bone and viscera, not so much unaware as unphased by their presence.

To call him a man would be not only incorrect, but a gross miscalculation; to name him as such would be to call the Devil himself just a man. In appearance, he resembles a human male, but his eyes are gateways to the darkest infinity, his pale hands instruments of agony and ecstasy, suffering and indulgence. He is a being of pure experience, a connoisseur of carnal pleasure; the Black Pope, the Dark Prince of Pain –

Pinhead.

While the name irked him somewhat when first bestowed upon him, he has since grown oddly fond of it. It carries with it a thrill of fear that pleases him, and the recognition of humanity. Where mortals thrived, there would always be fools, and amongst those fools, those reckless enough to seek him out. 

Snapping a fragment of spine beneath his step, he gazes with amusement at the elaborate display of candles, extinguished by the cold night air, that still stand vigil on the altar. Why mortals feel all these theatrics are necessary is beyond him; atmosphere is not what calls him from the nether-realm. A human could sit in total darkness, or in brilliant summer sunlight, or at the bottom of a well, and if desire drove their hands to open the door, they would come.

Despite the pitch dark and gore that conceals the floor from eyes less omnivident, he is able to locate the Lament Configuration without a second glance. He lifts it from the ground, admiring as he always did how unblemished the gilded sides remained – no trace of blood, bone, or any indication at all of its most recent handler’s gruesome fate. His long fingers caress the box’s intricate patterns, beguiling the segments back into their primary positions.

All that remains is the night.

~

It’s been five hours since you left your flat. Well, _their_ flat; lest you forget you were always there on their terms, by their courtesy. Any time you acted up – spoke out of turn, disagreed with any choice they made, they were always quick to remind you upon whose mercy your security fell. You always thought being under the thumb of another was better than being homeless, but after three years, you can’t tell if you’re so certain about that.

It’s still light outside, though the clouds towards town are heavily pregnant with imminent rain, casting a strange, purplish light over everything. You brush a finger over your lip, though the bleeding stopped several minutes ago, and wince at the pain, still preferable over the numbness that settled in over six months ago. Tucking your hair under the hood of your jacket, you adjust the strap of your bag and start the long walk towards town. You could call a cab, or take the bus, but your finite funds weigh feather-light in your pocket. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour to reach the park, where you’ll be able to claim shelter at least for the night.

The clouds break sooner than you expected, and within forty minutes you find yourself running, head bowed, through a cascade of rain. The water seeps through your sneakers and splashes up against your legs, soaking your jeans. You glance around for a place of temporary shelter and your eyes fall on a church about twenty yards down the street. The doors are most likely locked, but you can at least take refuge on the porch. The dampness in your socks feels even more acute when you’re safely under the wooden awning, and you wince as you peel them off to wring the water from them.

_Talk about a pathetic fallacy_.

As you set your bag down and stretch your arms, the quiet click of a lock makes you turn. One of the wooden doors is standing open, just a fraction. You’re unsure if it’s the wind that opened it or someone inside granting you access; either way, the invite could not be more welcome.

The church itself is nondescript – old, a little dusty, clearly not all that popular with parishioners. There are no bright wall-hangings or Sunday school artwork on display, like you remember from the church in your home village, and the hassocks that line the backs of the pews are muted shades of grey and brown. Even the pipes on the organ are dull, tarnished and lifeless. The entire building seems dead – unloved, abandoned. How fitting.

Removing your rain-soaked jacket, you drape it over the back of a pew and set down your bag.

“Hello?”

Your voice echoes to the rafters, but the rain and wind through leaves outside are the only answers you receive.

Your eyes fall on the dark wooden pulpit. The stand is carved in the shape of an eagle, and an aged bible sleeps upon its back. You climb the steps carefully, judging the sturdiness of the wood with each teasing creak. The bible has been left open, the pages yellowed, the print faded, as though the book itself were forgetting the lessons within it. You pass your eyes over one of the bolder passages and read it aloud, your soft voice loud in the emptiness:

“ _I say then: Walk in the Spirit, and you shall not fulfil the lust of the flesh. For the flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh; and these are contrary to one another, so that you do not do the things that you wish._ ”

The things that you wish, huh? Judging from the list the passage provided below, that seems to encompass most things any normal person might consider a good time – sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality . . . drunkenness, orgies . . . No wonder all the Catholics you’d ever met were so damn miserable.

As you descend, something glimmers at the corner of your vision; something gold. Turning your head towards the inner part of the sanctuary, you see a small box set in the centre of the altar. Upon closer inspection, it’s roughly the size of a Rubik’s cube, and made of a strange material you couldn’t quite place – heavy, not quite stone, not quite wood. On each side are complex patterns in what you are certain is pure gold, shining with a brilliance that feels decidedly out of place in such a morose location. Mesmerised, you run the tips of your fingers along the smooth edges, your hands tracing a pattern they seem to know off by heart. The box feels comfortable, somehow right, in your palms, like reclaiming some long-lost treasure. You smile and push with your thumbs at the centre of one side, which, to your surprise, slides inwards. The box reforms itself, a spiral of sharper edges elevating upwards, giving the box new shape – like a geometric model of the sun. A thrum of inexplicable excitement dances through your chest. You twist the protruding segments, and they drop easily back into position.

A sudden gust of wind, like a mournful sigh, brushes past your ear and you jump violently, the box dropping from your fingers to the floor. You glance around for any broken windows or doors ajar, but see nothing. Almost _literally_ nothing – when did it get so dark?

You bend down to retrieve the box, stumbling back with a shriek when a spark of something electric singes your fingers. The tips of your nails split down to the quick, and you ball your fist against the pain. You turn to walk away – to leave the damn thing, whatever it is – but it’s then that you see him.

He’s tall and terrifyingly imposing, with ice-white skin, midnight-dark eyes, and long black leather robes. His head is impaled from every angle with shining silver pins, and his chest is torn and bleeding. You back up towards the altar, but find your escape barred by another figure. Strong, unforgiving biceps pinion your arms to your sides, a set of fingers closing around your throat with unmistakable intent. A glance over your shoulder sets you screaming – the face— but no, how could it even be _called_ a face? A warped, twisted mess of melted flesh; no eyes, no ears, barely a nose. Oh, but it had a mouth – a terrifying, gaping maw, lips stretched cruelly back with razer wire from bared teeth; the constant chattering they make might have been comical were they not pulled straight from your darkest nightmares.

The Pinhead demon – for what else could they be? – slowly begins to ascend the pulpit steps, laying his hands on the bible in what could be considered reverence or revulsion. Where his fingers touch the words, dark crimson bleeds from the pages.

The church bell tolls a dreadful knell, the sound reverberating not just through your ears but through your chest, your very soul. It’s no earthly sound, no metal forged by man ringing out in the night – this is a call to service stretching far beneath the ground, far into the reaches of further dimensions. You want to cover your ears, sink to your knees, pray to whatever God might still be listening to save you from this, but those hellishly strong arms hold you firm.

You watch, transfixed and horrified, as two more demons appear from the shadows – one female with a hideous gash down the centre of her throat, the other slimy and gluttonous. The female has a length of barbed wire wrapped around her hand, the butterball demon dragging a large wooden cross over one shoulder.

Pinhead lifts his hands towards the ceiling and, as though from the depths of Hell itself, a ghastly choir of voices rises from around you – guttural screams and children’s cries polluting the air, escalating in a crescendo of pain and anguish.

Outside, the moon glares in helpless fury as those she watches over through the long nights – the dead, peaceful in their earthen slumber – rise in spectral procession, summoned to service by this demonic preacher. Men, women, children – all file in through the wide-open doors to take their places in the pews, hands clasped to beseech mercy from a God that no longer listens.

“My children,” he intones, his voice deep and resonant, and the ghosts flicker as a shudder passes through them. “Hear the words of the God who has forsaken you.”

The pages beneath his hand flutter as though in a high wind, his finger settling on a passage. The ink blossoms from the page in droplets of blood, staining the wood of the pulpit – which has changed from an eagle into a hellish creature with batlike wings and eyes of scarlet fire.

“ _Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted._ ”

A white-hot pain sears through your hands and you scream as you’re lifted upwards, your weight suspended by nothing more than the hooks piercing the flesh of your palms. You sob as the female demon binds you to the cross with barbed wire, puncturing the skin at your wrists, ankles and neck.

Pinhead laughs. “ _Whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me._ ”

The foot of the cross tilts upwards, and you find yourself hung upside down, gravity cruelly adding further pain to the barbs digging into your flesh. Your head pounds with terror and blood, your heart frantic as a caged butterfly awaiting the collector’s pin.

The phantom congregation moans and exults as your pitiful screams mix with those of the choir. The female demon takes a wickedly curved blade and draws it slowly down your side, the taut skin ripping like wet paper. You gag and twitch as pain like you’ve never known sets your nerves ablaze. You open your mouth and vomit onto the sanctuary floor, the skin of your throat tearing as it swells against the wire.

You barely register the hands touching you – gently, almost . . . _lovingly_ – caressing your tortured flesh. You whimper, half numb with pain, as Pinhead’s long, dextrous fingers explore the most intimate parts of your body, and through the torment you feel a bone-deep thrum of pleasure, intermingling with the pain like oil on water. You can no longer tell if you’re screaming or moaning, from agony or ecstasy.

You plead, bargain, _beg_ , but your words merely serve as one more voice in the unholy choir. You wish they would stop, you wish he would touch you again, you wish you were dead. The light is fading now, your heartbeat barely the strength of baby’s breath.

“Ahh, such sweet suffering,” Pinhead murmurs, fingers tracing the line of your slack jaw. “Oh, child. Stem your tears. Your flesh is our map to your deepest desires. Your screams will be our light in the search for your darkest pain.”

The last thing you comprehend before the darkness closes in is that rich, terrible, darkly angelic voice:

“See you in Hell.”


End file.
